


To the Edge of the Universe and Back

by buttercupsanddandelions



Category: The Last of Us, Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Death, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Gun Violence, Infection, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Minor Character Death, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Slow Burn, The Last of Us Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:27:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25717270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercupsanddandelions/pseuds/buttercupsanddandelions
Summary: Geralt can’t stand Posada; it’s a piece of shit town at the edge of Massachusetts and New Hampshire. It’s the kind of place people easily forget about, somewhere at the edge of the world.And of course, the world's shittiest singer has made his way here as well.Fuck.The Last of Us Au
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 31





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So I know nellii posted tlou au yesterday with some art by bee but I've been working on this idea for a week now and it's different enough so that you shouldn't get these two mixed up. Also I had a desperate craving for some southern!Geralt so I made this fic just to satisfy my needs.
> 
> Big shoutout to Kiersten my personal cheerleader for encouraging me to write this!
> 
> MAJOR WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Child death, gun violence.
> 
> If you don't want to read the death scene skip from, "Geralt pushes himself to his knees." to "He knows Eskel needs to go"

Ciri knows she should be in bed by now; it’s eleven at night and all the television channels are showing adult stuff like the news and sitcoms with fake laugh tracks that nobody really laughs at. You know, the _real_ boring stuff. 

But she has to stay up because today was her dad’s birthday and she hasn’t been able to see him at all today. He works construction, so he’s always gone by the time she wakes up for school, and she knows he pulls double shifts to save up for her college fund although she’s told him a million times that she doesn’t want to go to school for forever.

That’s when he brings out his ‘dad’ voice, “Listen, cub, you don’t want to end up like your old man. Get an education, make something of yourself.” He always talks with that gruff voice as if his vocal cords don’t know how to work correctly, it never comes out mean though, no her dad is the best, or at least he is until he pulls her into a noogie and ruffles her hair, “Get a good-paying job and then you can take care of me.”

And she laughs, she always does, because she just can’t picture her dad letting himself be taken care of. She can see him clear as day, a thousand years old, and still getting up at the buttcrack of dawn to feed the chickens and the horses because if he doesn’t do it, then it’s not done right.

Ciri can see the headlights looming from the dirt road before she even hears the rumble of the engine of the junky pick up truck her dad likes to drive around. She starts wiggling out of excitement because _dad’s home_.

She glances at the side table real quick just to check if the shoddily wrapped present is there. It is like the last ten times she checked, but she still wants to _make sure_.

She’s distracted enough to not notice that the subtle background noise from the engine has stopped. The headlights are blaring into the windows of their living room and Ciri can only hope that her dad doesn’t see that the lights inside the house are still on.

Who is she kidding, her dad knows everything.

Ciri grabs the television remote from its spot on the coffee table and ups the volume from whatever show she left it on. She then slumps over the arm of the couch, resting her head on her bicep and closes her eyes to a slit, just enough to make out shapes and shadows and sits in wait.

It’s not a long walk from the driveway to the front door and all too soon in pops her dad. Ciri can’t see him, but she can hear him sigh as he twists and cracks his back, a noise that never ceases to send chills up her spine. His boots make a thud as they hit the wooden floor and his socked feet make their way closer to the living room. 

The light flickers on and off as he fiddles with the lightswitch before leaving it on. He doesn’t make a lot of noise for a large man because it seems like he just pops up in front of Ciri. She would gasp if it didn’t give her surprise away.

“Cub, I know you’re up.”

Well damn, the jig is up anyway.

Ciri slowly sits up and stretches with a yawn to sell the act, “What do you mean dad? I fell asleep down here.” 

Her dad chuckles and sits down next to her, his right arm resting on the back of the couch in an open invitation to curl up next to him, “You think I’m an idiot cub?” 

She can’t help but curl into his side; he’s always so warm, “Nah, a stinky idiot, maybe.” Ciri laughs loud and bright as her dad pulls her into his lap and maneuvers her nose into his neck, which _is_ stinky after a long hard day of work. 

She brings out her secret weapon and blows hard into his ear, and like magic, it works and he pushes her slightly away, “Aw Ciri, you know I hate it when you do that.” He rubs at his ear as if she actually hurt him. If he wanted to make her laugh, he succeeded because the sight of her dad, all big and harsh with his gruff voice and silver hair pretending to be taken down by the uncomfortable feeling of wind blowing into your ear, is one for the ages.

“And I hate when you don’t shower after work, but you don’t see me complaining,” Ciri grumbles but still leans into him, her arms grabbing onto his and refuses to relinquish them.

Ciri can feel him exhale slowly, “Kid, we’ve talked about this, I work so you can-”

“Go to school so I can make a ton of money and take care of you.” The mantra has been ingrained in her since she started middle school last year. “Speaking of taking care of you, I got you something.” She lunges for the side table and the gift precariously placed there, once she grabs them she plops back onto her dad’s lap, he gives a small oomph, but it’s all for show.

The gift and its shitty newspaper wrapping paper sit on Ciri’s lap. In the harsh light of the living room lamp, it looks even shittier than average. She has butterflies in her stomach, but her dad didn’t raise a coward, so she thrusts it towards him, a harsh command on her tongue, “Happy birthday now open it.” 

He takes his time opening it up, taking extra care not to rip the newspaper it’s wrapped up in. Ciri wants to yell at him to hurry because the anticipation is killing her. He’s as much of an asshole as she is, though, because he senses how anxious she is and he impossibly goes slower. Enough is enough, Ciri rips the box from his hands and opens it for him.

It’s a watch.

Black leather straps, minimalist face with silver hands and decals. It’s not the nicest watch out there, but Ciri saw it at some department store while she was out shopping with friends and she knew she had to buy it for her dad. Partially due to his birthday coming up, partially because he desperately needed a new one as the strap on his current one was starting to tear, and lord knew he wouldn’t do anything to replace it. He’s a cheapskate like that.

“Well, do you like it?”

“How much did this cost?”

Ciri drawls out, “Dad c’mon, it’s your birthday. People get nice things on their birthday.” She glances up at him, and his golden eyes are a little misty, oh jeez, did she make her dad cry? 

“Daddy?”

He takes a deep breath and kisses the side of her head where her hair is all ruffled from his messing around and her sleeping on the couch, “I love it baby, thank you.”

She doesn’t know if it’s the warmth of his voice or that he sounds like he’s gonna start crying, that brings tears to her eyes. Refusing to show a _hint_ of weakness, though her dad wouldn’t call it weak, she crushes her face to his broad chest and just sinks into the love and coziness he’s radiating and basks in it.

Well, that is until he makes a face and taps on the front of the watch, “Awe cub, I think it’s broken, it’s stuck or something.”

Ciri grabs onto the hand holding onto the watch and brings it closer to her face to examine it. And there it is, the slow tick tick tick noise of a dial moving as the second’s wind by. She scoffs and lets go of his hand, “Think you’re a funny idiot now, huh dad?”

He only chuckles and tucks her closer to his side.

They sit like that for a while, the television nothing but white noise in the background until Ciri gives out a loud yawn that cracks her jaw and makes her dad yawn in response. He makes a little grunting sound and shifts her to the side to stand up. He does that weird stretch thing where he bows his back with his arms held upward. She doesn’t understand what it does for him because when she tried it did absolutely nothing but made her feel like an idiot. Must be an old person thing.

“C’mon cub time for bed, and don’t even think about trying to get out of school tomorrow because you’re too tired.”

Dad really _does_ know everything.

Her response is to give him a _little_ headbutt to the chest before climbing up the stairs to her bedroom and a couple of hours of sleep.

* * *

Typically Ciri is a deep sleeper, the likes of which only a million alarm clocks can wake. But tonight is tonight, and there’s something strange in the air. It only takes the ring of her phone to wake her up.

It’s on the nightstand in the middle of a mess of crumpled granola wrappers and empty juice pouches, but luckily she grabs it without dropping anything onto the floor before the call ends.

She can’t even get out a quick greeting before whoever’s on the other end of the line says her name in a hurry.

“Uncle Eskel?” She thinks she recognizes his burly voice, “What time is it?” Her eyes are a little blurry with sleep, but it is still dark outside with no hint of dawn.

“Ciri, just get your dad on the phone. Please. Something’s-” And just like that the call drops and Ciri is left wondering what to do. 

She climbs out of her bed and slips her feet into a pair of lion slippers, a gag gift from her uncle Lambert that she treasures to this day, and makes her way toward her dad’s room. It’s only down the hallway, but it feels like a million miles with how strange everything feels. Fortunately, the door is slightly ajar, and his television is on leaving a sort of beacon-like glow for her to walk towards.

Ciri pushes the door open even further, not even bothering to knock because obviously, this is an emergency, “Dad?” He’s not here, his comforter’s pushed back, and the television shows the nightly news. She’s about to leave and check downstairs for him when she realizes she _knows_ where that news reporter is; it’s a fertilizer plant The sight of it is iconic because it looks like a place where they make nukes and stuff. That plant is on fire, but if it’s on fire, then surely it’s about to-.

She can see it through the window, bright and mushroom-like, and a second later, it shakes the whole house making it feel like an earthquake. The feed on the news cuts to static and the tingles the noise gives her makes her shut it off as fast as she can. 

Ciri wants to go back to sleep or cry or something because shit is happening, and her dad is nowhere to be found. She sniffles and wipes her eyes of any tears and trudges ever onward. 

With the television off she has to use the flashlight on her phone to navigate the stairs. She’s lived in this house her whole life and still gets scared trying to make her way around with the lights off. Her dad says that's normal for everyone though; he says everyone's a little afraid of the dark, that it's what makes us human. Too bad he's not here to remind her. 

As soon as she makes it downstairs, she checks the kitchen to see if he possibly got hungry for a midnight snack. There's no one there; however, she does find his cellphone. She taps the power button to get the screen on and the first thing she notices is that it's full of notifications of missed calls and text messages from her uncles and grandpa. 

Ciri's really scared now that something awful is happening and she has no clue what it is. 

That's when the motion detector lights in the backyard go off. It scares the life out of her and makes her squeak. She ducks and hides by the cabinets praying that it's just one of the critters that like to roam around outside. But that'd be too simple. 

The sliding door is wrenched open with force and Ciri stifles a sob, she can't bring herself to check who's breaking into her house. She just wants her daddy to be there and to hold her and tell her everything will be alright cub because he _always_ makes sure everything's okay for her. 

The footsteps are muffled as the stranger walks over the carpet, soon enough she hears the clicking noise of the gun safe in her dad's tool room, because the man refuses to call it an office, being opened. It has to be her dad; it just has to be. No one else would know the safe combination. 

Ciri peaks her head out and tries to make sense of the silhouette she can just make out. It is her dad. Ciri can't help but start crying as she gets up off her knees and runs toward him. He must hear her making noises because he stops her before she can hug him, "Hold on cub, go get your shoes on. We're leaving." His hands are steady as he loads up his pistol that she never sees him use. 

A part of her is scared of the gun. A part of her is scared to see he's not nervous about handling it. And a tiny part of her is relieved that he has a gun in the first place. 

The motion detector lights go off again, and her dad quickly pulls her behind him as he aims his gun at the sliding glass door. It's not a critter still, it's their neighbor Mr. Rowan. 

He's walking funny, twitching, taking a step to the left only to take two steps to the right, but still, heading towards the door. 

"Cirilla, close your eyes." Her dad _never_ uses her first name, so he must be serious, but it's their _neighbor_. 

Mr. Rowan says hello to her every morning on her way to the school bus, and he always lets her pet his dogs when she catches them on a walk up and down the dirt lane their houses are settled on. He's a good person and doesn't deserve her dad aiming his gun at him like he won't hesitate to shoot if he tries to open the door. 

"Daddy, what's wrong with Mr. Rowan?" Ciri tugs on the back of his shirt, trying to get his unwavering attention away from the man in their backyard. 

It doesn't work, her dad refuses to look back at her, "He's not right in the head Ciri. He's sick." 

"Then he needs a doctor, not a gun aimed at him." She tries to pull at the arm holding the gun, but her dad hasn't worked construction his entire adult life for nothing, he doesn't budge. "Dad c'mon, stop it."

That's when Mr. Rowan starts banging on the door. 

His face is a sickly yellow, and he's covered in blood like he's an extra on a horror movie set. Only this isn't a movie. This is her life. Ciri watches in horror as he starts scratching at the glass with his nails as if it will do anything. The shrieking noises his nails make sends chills up her spine. She would love to cover her ears, her eyes, and block out the world and just breathe in the scent of her dad and pretend that nothing is out of the ordinary.

It’s only that everything is out of the ordinary and not in the extra kind of way, but more of a ‘the end of the world is upon us’ kind of way.

Mr. Rowan finally stops scratching at the door and has taken to banging on it with his forehead, the bang it makes has her jumping every time he does it. He’s leaving blood streaks on what used to be clear glass, the sight of it makes her nauseous, she hides her face into her dad’s shirt and whimpers. The banging continues until she hears a weird splintering sound, she tries to look, she can be brave enough for that, but her dad pushes her back towards the wall.

The splintering sound continues until it evolves into a loud crack, the type that hurts your ears and your brain because it’s a danger noise, a warning to _get away_. 

Ciri falls to the floor and pushes herself against the wall as the glass rains down on the carpet, the sounds Mr. Rowan was making were muffled by the closed door, but now that he’s shattered it open she can hear the strange groaning he makes.

He doesn’t sound human.

He doesn’t _look_ human.

“James, stay back. I’m warning you.” Her dad sounds so desperate, and now she can see him start to tremble as Mr. Rowan barges onward, “James, no!” Her dad shouts when he gets too close and when he takes a swipe at them, her dad shoots.

It doesn’t feel real.

The echo of the gunshot, the wet noise it makes as it enters Mr. Rowan’s head, the plop he does when his body falls to the ground, almost like a puppet with its strings cut off. She doesn’t even feel her dad’s hands on her face wiping her tears, she can’t hear what he’s saying, can’t feel her legs move when he forces them to walk towards the front of the house. Lights are blaring through the windows again and the sound of a rumbling car. Was it only hours ago that it was her dad making his way home to her? Couldn’t be, that was a million years ago.

Her dad’s grip on her wrist is starting to hurt, but she doesn’t say anything to him, can only make whiny little noises as he pulls her along out the front door and into Uncle Eskel’s car.

Ciri’s sitting in the middle of the back seat desperately taking everything in. The fire from the fertilizer plant is still going strong, all the people who live on their little dirt road are running around like chickens with their heads cut off, the radio when she asks for it to be turned on gives nothing but more static. 

Nobody knows what’s going on.

Her dad and Uncle Eskel are arguing over which way to go, but she can’t bring herself to pay attention to the actual words they’re spouting. She’s not sure of who wins their argument, but Uncle Eskel drives them towards the highway. They pass some of the little homesteads and farms, places where she knows the owners because she passes through so often; they’re on fire now, and she can only pray that they’ve made it out in time.

They’re crossing over a bridge when they see a couple of hitchhikers, a small family of three. Uncle Eskel starts to slow down to pull to the side when her dad speaks up, “Keep going Eskel.”

“Geralt, they've got a kid with them.” Uncle Eskel tries to appeal to her dad, but her dad isn’t having it.

“So do we. Keep going.” Her dad reaches back to pat her knee, but it brings her no comfort. They pass the family who tries to wave them down, their fate’s been decided already, and she can do nothing as they pass them by.

When they end up at the highway, it’s a sea of red taillights, “Fuck. Looks like everybody else had the same idea.” Uncle Eskel starts craning his head back and forth to look for another way out. He doesn’t see the man in the car in front of him get out to start yelling at the other drivers. He doesn’t see when that man gets knocked down to the ground by a person-shaped thing.

Looks just like Mr. Rowan.

Her dad slams his hand on Uncle Eskel’s shoulder, “Get us out of here Eskel.” And immediately Uncle Eskel starts backing up the car. Fortunately, there’s no one behind them so he’s able to get back far enough to turn down another road.

This road leads to downtown; the whole place looks trashed with shop windows broken in and even more fires starting to pop up. Then there’s the people, roves of them running away from the inner city, she asks, “What are they running from?” But neither man answers her.

They’re arguing again, this time she listens, “You need to go Eskel there’s no time for dilly-dallying.” Her dad’s voice gets rougher the longer the night lasts, he’s starting to sound mean.

“I can’t just go, there’s people in the way.” Uncle Eskel keeps the car moving forward in little spurts but not enough to get them past all the crowds, “Can’t go backwards either.” The cabin of the car’s illuminated by the headlights of another vehicle indicating that someone is behind them. With the way everything’s been tonight, they’re not likely to allow them to reverse.

Finally, there’s a gap in the crowds of people pouring out. Her dad gives the command to go as Uncle Eskel puts his foot down on the pedal. They’re crossing a side street with people jumping out of their way to avoid the car at the speed Uncle Eskel’s driving. She takes a glance at the driver’s side window and sees headlights.

She can’t even get a warning out before everything goes dark.

* * *

Geralt can’t feel his right shoulder.

He _can_ feel the bits of glass cutting into his face and his head leaning against the rough gravel of the road. He shouldn’t be able to feel the road inside of a car. He doesn’t know which is worse.

“Daddy, are you okay?” _Oh, thank gods_.

Geralt leans up on his elbow to take a look at his cub; she’s pale with bloodshot eyes, and her hair’s a tangled mess, but she looks just as perfect as the day she was born. “I’m alright kiddo.”

He can hear screams and groans of the ones that are sick. He can see as they grab and bite and kill people. Geralt can’t let that happen to his baby. “Stay back there, Ciri.” He grabs onto the car’s frame and struggles to lift his legs from the footwell of the car, he eventually does it though and starts kicking at the windshield. It only takes a few decent kicks to spots that are already splintered to break. He clenches his eyes closed and starts to climb out of the car.

Somebody grabs at him and pushes him against the roof of the upturned car; it’s one of the sick ones, and normally he’s got strength to spare, but he’s tired, _so tired_ , and it’s taking all he has to keep the damn thing’s teeth away from his person. 

And there Eskel is, like a goddamn knight in shining armor, brandishing a brick torn loose by the crowds and bashes the fucking things head in. The brothers give each other a look, an acknowledgment that whatever happens today that they’ll do their damndest to make sure they all make it out alive.

Once he's sure Eskel has his back Geralt kneels on the ground, the glass digging into his jeans, and calls for Ciri. She crawls along until he can grab her hands and tugs her out of the destroyed car. 

She stumbles and stills her hands on his forearms, "Dad wait," she's panting, "my leg hurts." He goes to check her leg real quick but is stumbled by the fact that she's still in her checkered pajama pants with only a pair of ratty slippers protecting her feet. Did he not give her enough time to get a pair of shoes on?

Then he notices a stream of blood trailing down her leg. 

It’s... _horrific_ to look at, the crimson staining her pants leg and dripping onto the gravel. Ciri looks so pale like she has no blood left to give, and he knows he needs to get this wrapped up and looked at as soon as possible, but the sounds of the night soon creep back into focus and he realizes that they just need to make a run for it and hope for the best.

Eskel is still at his back, keeping guard with the bloody brick in one hand and a broken beer bottle in another ready for anything that comes at their family. Geralt pulls out his pistol from the waistband of his jeans where it’s been sitting and hands it to Eskel. He lets the beer bottle go and clicks the safety off, a nod communicating all that needs to be said. Geralt picks Ciri up allowing her to hide her face into his chest, he ignores the warmth of her blood starting to coat his forearms, and runs further into the city, Eskel’s back a comforting sight just ahead of him.

They run down a maze of streets, just barely keeping themselves out of harm. Ciri’s crying into his t-shirt, and it hurts that he can’t comfort her, but he has to keep them moving, has to keep her safe. 

There’s the squeal of tires in the air and the smell of burnt rubber mixing in with the clinging smoke and ash from the multiple fires that pop up. Every time it happens, Ciri can’t help but look, her attention drawn by the noise, he tells her, “Look at me cub, it’s okay, we’re gonna get out of here.” But he can only draw her attention away for so long before another _bang_ goes off in the distance with an accompanying flash of light and heat.

Geralt’s shoulder is starting to burn from the ache of carrying Ciri around, but his grip on her is iron tight, and he refuses to let her budge from the safety of his arms. He can see the bright marquis of the old-timey movie theater just up ahead and he knows that just behind it is the highway running parallel to the street it lies on. They’re so close out of this hell he can feel it.

Of course that’s when some asshole crashes into the theater and causes another explosion making that path unusable. Geralt curses under his breath, there has to be another way out of here, but his brain can’t think of one. 

Geralt’s fortunate that Eskel is with them because it’s Eskel’s voice that calls out to him leading them down an alley void of people, he’s tempted to slow his jog down to a walk but one glance at Ciri’s tear stricken face has him change his mind. 

They’re at the end of the alley, right where it cuts through to some side street when one of the sick ones leaps at him. Ciri’s arms jump to hold him around his neck as he uses his left forearm as a brace against the damn thing. Its teeth make a harsh clacking noise as it tries to chomp on him. He can’t help but growl as the things eyes move to Ciri, but before he can do anything, Eskel is there ripping the thing from him and blasting it in its pathetic face.

Eskel glances up at them, “Well, best be getting a move on then, you can thank me later.” He retakes the lead and guides them to the outdoor patio of some shitty restaurant he’s never heard of. As they make it to the door that leads inside, they can hear the pounding of footsteps trailing them.

The door is jammed and Eskel has to lean his shoulder into it to get it open. He lets Geralt and Ciri inside and slams the door shut, or at least tries to because the door is starting to bow from the weight of whatever’s been following them, “I’ll hold them off, keep going till you hit the highway.” His scarred face is grim but determined as he holds back the horde at their feet.

Geralt’s face does _something_ ; they were all supposed to make it out of this alive, “Eskel c’mon that’s suicide.”

Even Ciri calls out for him, “Uncle Eskel, please.” 

And it’s heartbreaking how her voice breaks into a sob, but Eskel shakes his head, his body jolts as the door is slammed into again, “You’ve got the cub, you gotta go.”

That’s the end of that argument.

Geralt turns on his heel with a heavy heart and shifts Ciri up a bit, telling her to, “Hold on tight kid.” Just like that, they’re off. They exit the building from the front doors just as the back door gives out. Geralt can’t bring himself to look back to see what becomes of his brother. His mission is to get his kid out of here.

Their path leads to the bush area that lies on the highway’s borders. Geralt can hear the faint sounds of congested roads and gains that last bit of energy to get to their destination. He has to dodge a few more of those sick things, but some are already injured and don’t give chase. It’s _good_ , he can barely outrun the ones who do.

Geralt’s chest is heaving, his heart is racing from the exertion and panic and stress, but he can see the silhouette of a man, or what he hopes to be a man, with a flashlight held close to his chest. The man lowers it as they approach and pulls out a rifle and starts shooting.

Ciri screams in his ear as he does his best to cover her, but when the bullets stop, they’re still standing. He opens his eyes out of shock and looks toward the man, the soldier who saved their lives.

The soldier is talking into his coms, just audible enough for Geralt to hear. The sound of the highway is bright and clear now over the chaos coming from the city.

“Sir, I’ve got a couple of civilians here, please advise.” 

He can’t see the soldier’s face from here, but he can imagine the face he makes when he states, “Sir, there’s a little girl with them.”

Geralt has a bad feeling about this, “Please, we’re not sick. My daughter, her leg’s hurt real bad. We just need a little help.”

It’s as if the soldier doesn’t hear his pleas, only responds to his commanding officer, “Understood.”

For the second time, the soldier raises his rifle, aimed at him, aimed at Ciri. Geralt tries to turn as fast as he can so that he’s the bigger target, anything to save his baby, but one of the bullets grazes his bicep, and out of reflex, he lets go of Ciri, and she goes flying out of his hands from the momentum.

Geralt lands on his back, he wheezes from the force of his painful landing and the burning pain in his arm. He can feel the flashlight shining on his face as the soldier walks up to him. He opens his eyes only a bit because the flashlight is too damn bright, he brings his right arm up to give a bit of a shield. 

He can see the soldier now as he stares down the end of a barrel. The only thing he can think of is that he hopes Ciri can’t see this; he doesn’t want her to watch her daddy die, not from the infected who brought the chaos but the ones who were supposed to save them from it.

Geralt closes his eyes one last time, the image of Ciri from hours before as she curled into him on his mind. He braces for the pain, Ciri’s name on his lips. 

The gun goes off. 

He lives.

He opens his eyes out of shock and son-of-a-bitch, there’s Eskel bloodied up and looking all the worse for it, but he’s alive. He wants to clutch him close and tell him to never pull some shit plan like that again, but he hears a strange squeaking noise. 

Geralt pushes himself to his knees. He can’t find Ciri, not right away, Eskel grabs his forearm, making him curse when it aggravates the wound already there. When he sees her, his little cub is shaking with tremors as her arms hold her stomach as if she’s trying to keep her insides in.

_Oh, gods, no, please._

He can’t move fast enough, everything feels like it’s filtered through molasses, and when he crashes onto his knees next to her prone body, he feels as if his heart’s been ripped out of his chest. His whole world is ending and there’s nothing he can do.

“Ciri, cub, you gotta move your hands, okay?” His voice comes out in a croak as he gently pushes her hands away to cover the gaping wound in her tummy. Geralt thought it was awful when he could feel her blood running down on him from her leg. He was wrong. This is worse; this is so much worse. His hands are warm and slippery with blood within seconds as he pushes down tight.

He could kill himself for the pitiful whine she gives when he does so, but he can’t help himself; this is what you’re supposed to do: put pressure, stop the bleeding. It’s not enough. Ciri’s life is slipping through his fingers and his damn efforts are not enough, “Baby, please, don’t do this to me.” The tears running down his face are hot he’s sure, but he can’t feel it. “C’mon cub. We’re almost there.”

He’s not sure what his words do for her, he’s not even sure if she can understand him; she hasn’t said a word, her mouth only moving to release squeaks and whines as he does his best to keep her from slipping away.

Geralt keeps one hand pressed tightly to her tummy and uses his other arm to gather her to his chest, a facsimile of their earlier position on the couch. Oh, what he would give to have never let her go upstairs to bed, what he would give to have her stay up and wait for him just because she wanted to see him one more time, what he would give to have one more day of Ciri’s sweet smile.

“Baby?” She’s not shaking anymore, her blood’s still hot under his hand, but the rest of her is starting to lose that warmth, “Ciri, c’mon don't do this.” His voice finally breaks into sobs, “Please don’t go, please.” Geralt finally looks at her face, her eyes, her beautiful green eyes usually so full of light and life are dim. 

She’s gone.

He wretches his hand away from the wound and wraps them around her body, fully pulling her into his lap. He hides his face into her hair that still smells like the strawberry shampoo that she begs him to buy because it’s her favorite scent, and even though it was a whole 3 dollars more and they were on a budget he still bought it for her.

Geralt rocks back and forth with Ciri in his arms until Eskel’s hands clamp down on his shoulder. It makes him look up; his brother looks just as wrecked as he feels, “Geralt, we need to go.” 

He knows Eskel needs to go and that he won’t leave without him, but part of Geralt just wants to bury himself with Ciri. She wouldn’t want that though, would call him a stupid stinky idiot for even entertaining the thought.

He grabs onto Eskel’s hand and heaves himself up, leaving Ciri on the cold hard ground. It’s the second hardest thing, to walk away from her, to leave her body for whatever finds her. Geralt almost turns around, almost turns the soldier’s rifle on himself, but Eskel calls out once more, and with that, he leaves this hellhole his face full of ash and dirt with tear tracks trailing down.

Geralt locks up his heart and leaves the key with Cirilla, the only person who ever held onto it with care and walks toward the unknown.


	2. Summer Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read this fic! Thank you to Kiersten for being my guinea pig and encouraging me to write. I've had an awful week so far, but writing this truly makes me so happy.
> 
> If you've noticed, yes, the chapter count has tripled in size. I finally mapped everything out so hopefully, I don't have a WIP on my hands. 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter, a lot less angst this time!

10 Years Later 

Geralt can’t stand Posada; it’s a piece of shit town at the edge of Massachusetts and New Hampshire. It’s the kind of place people easily forget about, somewhere at the edge of the world.

Or at least the edge of the continental US. 

The bar he finds himself in is appropriately named  _ The Edge of the World _ but other than that it’s got nothing that would make anyone want to come back to it; half the lights don’t work, all of the tabletops are sticky with gods know what, and whatever talent they hired has a good voice but shit songs.

He’s supposed to sit here in the corner where the lights are the dimmest, not that it was hard to find a spot with little visibility, and wait for Yennefer to show up with the details on their latest smuggling deal with one Filavandrel of the Silver Towers. 

Fucking pretentious ass name if you ask him. 

No one ever does. Geralt’s job is to sit in the background and look intimidating while Yennefer talks circles around their clients and swindles more goods from then than was initially agreed on. They've been pulling this kind of shit for almost five years now and they’ve never needed to change a thing about it.

Or at least that’s what Geralt thinks.

He takes a sip from the swill the bar’s trying to pass off as beer and grimaces at the taste it leaves in his mouth. He debates if it’s worth it to dump out the rest onto the floor like previous patrons before him or to suck it up and swallow it down. He’s interrupted from his internal debate by the abrupt stop of the background music.

Poor guy’s dodging the rock hard rolls of bread people are tossing at him. He calls out in an accent Geralt hasn’t heard in a  _ long _ time, “Fuck off ya cunts!” 

The musician packs his guitar away and starts grabbing the bread from the floor and stuffing it into his jacket pockets. A part of Geralt wants to warn him about the sticky floor, another part of him kinda wants to see the guy’s face when he tries to break a tooth biting into the bread.

Turns out, Geralt doesn’t have to do anything; once the guy makes eye contact with him, Geralt darts his eyes immediately, but it’s too late, the guy lights up like a damn Christmas tree and treads a path to Geralt’s lone corner.

The guy, kid really going off his looks, opens his mouth, showing off a set of pearly white teeth, the kid’s parents must be rich to afford that with a fucking apocalypse. He looks like he’s about to let loose words at a mile-a-minute, so Geralt puts an end to that right away.

“No.”

The kid’s mouth clacks shut with a noise loud enough to sound like it hurt something. His mouth forms a little pout that he moves side to side as if contemplating his next move. All the while, his fingers tap out an incongruous beat to the small talk surrounding them. 

Geralt glances away from the kid’s too bright blue eyes and checks the doorway for any sign of Yennefer. There’s none, which means he still has time to get rid of the kid before she tears him a new one.

Geralt huffs to himself to grab the kid’s attention, “Listen, you don’t want to be caught sitting with me. My friend’s comin’ along real soon and you sure as hell don’t want to be here when she shows up.”

His warning does nothing to drive the kid away, if anything it makes his stupid little grin even dopier, “You know when I found my way to America I never imagined I would meet a person with an actual accent like yours,  _ oh _ , can you please say ‘giddy-up cowboy’ you would make my day.”

The funny thing is he’s a  _ little _ tempted to do it because he’s sure the kid’s grin is the brightest thing he’s gonna see all day. And then he remembers another equally bright grin of a fair-haired child who insisted that she was actually part lion; thank you very much and thus deserved a fitting name—his little cub. 

He shakes his head to rid himself of the image, but the kid takes it as a response to his request, “You’re not a lot of fun, are you?” The kid sticks out his hand and at first Geralt’s confused, but he eventually catches on and shakes it out of courtesy rather than actual want, “Well, I’m plenty of it. The name’s Jaskier, and who might you be?”

“None of your damn business. Now, why don’t you fuck off and let me drink in peace?” Geralt’s brows furrow in a way that he knows makes him look mean and nasty, the kind of person that looks like they need to be drinking by themself in a dark corner. And yet the kid,  _ Jaskier _ , who in their right mind would name their kid  _ Jaskier _ , stays rooted to his spot across from Geralt with a twee little grin on his face like he knows Geralt doesn’t mean it.

Jaskier reaches across the tabletop to snag the glass out of his hand. Geralt thinks about warning him but decides not to, in the end, kids gotta learn. Jaskier takes a large gulp that makes Geralt wince and watches as he promptly spits it onto the floor, “That,” he pauses to cough out a lung, “was not beer. That was piss. And you just let me drink it? Rude man.”

Geralt tilts his head to the side, “You know what piss tastes like, boy?”

The kid sure is a funny sight to see as he turns a bright cherry red and sputters out, “Boy? You, what, I-” He lifts himself slightly off his seat to point a finger in Geralt’s face, “I am 30 years old I’ll have you know. Boy, he calls me. Ridiculous, I have never been treated so rudely in my life.” Geralt lifts his brows and looks towards Jaskier’s pockets that are still filled with rolls of bread, “Okay, you’re maybe not the  _ rudest _ person I’ve met, but you still broke my heart a little. Boy,” Jaskier mutters to himself and shakes his head, “Be honest mysterious stranger, how old did you think I was? Color me curious.” He bats his cow eyes at him, which only makes Geralt roll his in response.

“I dunno,12, maybe?” 

That just gives him another outraged squawk, “You thought I was a child and still let me grab your foul-tasting drink? The blasphemy! The betrayal!.”

Geralt shrugs his shoulders, “Kids gotta learn.” He grabs the glass from Jaskier’s side of the table and takes another sip, he doesn’t want to actually taste it again, but the face Jaskier makes when he swallows it down is too good to pass up, “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Tastes decent for this kind of place.”

Jaskier laughs with glee, “Now I know you’re bullshitting me. What would you know about this kind of place, you don’t sound like you’re from around here.” Jaskier’s eyes square in on something just behind him, “Hold on a mo’ is that a sword?” He leans in further, trying to get a better glance, Geralt shifts his sword out of view, but the damage is done. Jaskier’s eyes widen in shock, “White hair, yellow eyes, and a sword? I  _ do  _ know who you are.” His voice gets breathier, “You’re the smuggler, Geralt from Rivia, oh my heavens, I’ve been looking for someone like you for ages.”

The conversation isn’t fun anymore, Geralt deliberately sat in the dark to not get recognized, but Jaskier was loud, and now they’re garnering glances from around the pub. Geralt wishes he brought his hooded jacket to the meeting to hide his hair in it, but it’s too late. 

He stands up from his seat and gives Jaskier a piece of jerky he was saving for later because he doesn’t actually want the kid to eat the shitty bread he was stowing away. He would break a tooth, ruin his smile.

Geralt walks away ignoring Jaskier’s pleas for him to stay, he should definitely stay because he doesn’t know where Yennefer is, doesn’t know where the deal is going down, but he can’t stay here any longer. 

He’s about to exit when someone else comes in, Geralt takes a step back to let them pass, but they lock their gaze onto him, “You, with the white hair, Geralt, right?” Geralt nods, confused more than anything, “Got a message for you from the lady in black, said to meet her down by the coast.” The man continues, “She looked like she was in a hurry.” He pats Geralt on the shoulder before moving past him to the bartop.

Why would Yennefer send a message like that? No details, no clues, nothing. She could be in trouble, could be a trap. But Geralt has nothing better to do today, so he’ll take his chances at getting killed and heads out towards the coast.

* * *

  
  


Maybe Geralt shouldn’t’ve left Jaskier his bit of jerky because now he can’t shake the damn kid off. He can imagine his old man now, telling him off for feeding a stray, but Geralt’s always had a soft heart and never listened to Vesemir’s warnings.

His soft heart had gotten him Ciri, the best little girl anyone could ask for, and Geralt wouldn’t have traded having her in his life for anything.

Not even to get rid of the kid on his trail.

“So Geralt, stupid bottle,” Jaskier kicks another beer bottle, one of hundreds, and watches as it rolls under one of the dozens of abandoned cars that line the streets, “how much is it to hire you? I know you’re one of the best in the business and I need to compare your uh,” he pauses, trying to think of the word, “your going rate? Is that right? It sounds right. Anyways, I need to compare your going rate with any other smugglers around.”

Geralt can feel his blood pressure going up the longer Jaskier speaks. Did he not understand Geralt was on a mission? Could he not tell from the pace he was marching away that Geralt was in a hurry? Yennefer could be in danger and here was Jaskier yapping his ear off as he tries to focus.

“I’m too expensive for your blood, so don’t even think about it,” Geralt bites out.

Jaskier chuckles, a noise that makes Geralt turn around and shush him for, “I don’t know about that darling, my blood is quite blue, but sure I’ll put you down as more expensive than toilet paper, alright with you?”

Geralt grumbles but doesn’t give Jaskier the pleasure of a retort and continues on his path.

He could just make out the noise of the waves crashing onto the sand over Jaskier’s heavy tread and the thud of his guitar case on his back so he couldn’t have been too far from where he needs to go. 

The sun is still high in the sky, but nobody else is taking their chances out here. Most people are squandered away in their hideouts, little podunk places like this tend to go neglected by the military and thus get no protection from the infected that still roam.

Runners, stalkers, clickers, and bloaters alike are allowed to walk free because the government decided small towns like this were expendable.

Fucking assholes.

Geralt’s trying to focus on getting to Yennefer and finding out what kind of shit she got them into, but his attention is pulled away by Jaskier.

Or lack of Jaskier in this instance.

He doesn’t hear Jaskier’s footsteps behind him anymore, kid is so goddamn loud it’s a miracle he hasn’t been offed by a clicker yet. Geralt debates the need to turn around and make sure Jaskier’s still there or if he should take this as the opportunity it is and lose him for good. That soft heart of his is making a reappearance and Geralt turns around.

Poor kid looks like he might piss himself. Jaskier’s face has gone pale despite the bright, burning sun as an unfamiliar beast of a man holds a damn switchblade to the fluttering pulse at his throat. 

Geralt wants to give his face a good smacking. This is why he doesn’t get involved. Precisely this reason, because now the kid’s gonna expect Geralt to save him and Geralt already has a busy day ahead of him.

Jaskier makes the tiniest of whimpers as the blade leaves a nick on his neck. Geralt shouldn’t feel anything, he hardly knows Jaskier, he could leave him to die. 

Fuck. 

He’s gonna have to save the fucking kid, isn’t he?

Geralt raises his hands in the air in hopes that the stranger would ease off of Jaskier a bit, but no such luck. His sword is a paralyzing weight on his back, but no help in this situation. He’s too far away to even attempt anything ballsy.

“Any reason you’re holding the kid hostage, or should I start my random guessing now?” Geralt calls out to the man. 

Jaskier, ever the blabbermouth, “I would love to hear your guesses Geralt. Take your time, not like there’s a chance I’m gonna kick the bucket anytime soon.”

The man pushes the switchblade into Jaskier’s neck just a little further to cut off his rambling, Geralt clenches his jaw as the line of blood grows thicker, “Well, got an answer for me, asshole?” 

He doesn’t.

He  _ does _ whisper something into Jaskier’s ear that makes the kid’s cow eyes go even wider. Jaskier opens his mouth to say something when something slams into his temple.

The last thing Geralt sees is the man hit Jaskier with the hilt of something before his eyes close on him and he lands in a heap on a bed of broken glass.

* * *

  
  


Geralt jerks into consciousness. His limbs attempt to flail unashamedly but are stopped by the ropes binding him to another body. It’s a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation, but Geralt will work with what he has. 

Which isn’t much, he just has, what he’s presuming to be the kid tied to his back like a fucking barnacle and a ghost of a plan forming in his head. There’s daylight peeking in through the boarded-up windows granting some light to the barren room. 

He feels Jaskier come to. His own flailing tightens the ropes and Geralt grunts. “So,” Jaskier’s voice breaks the silence, “is this the part of the movie where your unnaturally sexy partner comes to save us or do I have us down for the wrong genre?”

Jaskier leans back and unintentionally smacks the back of his head into Geralt’s. “Do you ever shut up?” Geralt mutters under his breath and tries to will away the bit of pain that came from their heads colliding.

“No, I don’t really go in for that kind of thing.”

Of course he doesn’t.

Geralt’s ready to start gnawing on the ropes binding him to Jaskier when the door opens. It’s a man and a woman, both just about looking for a fight. The man is carrying Jaskier’s guitar and as soon as Jaskier notices he makes a pathetic little whine. He starts plucking the strings which sends Jaskier into a tiff. The woman approaches them, a feral look in her eye.

She doesn’t hold back, that’s for sure. She starts by taunting them, “You stupid idiots thought you could pull a fast one on us, huh?”

Geralt has no idea what she’s talking about but gives off no hint of that, don’t need her to know that he’s at a disadvantage. A loud  _ crack _ interrupts her tirade and Geralt turns his head to see where the commotion is coming from.

Jaskier’s guitar is broken in two at the neck and if he thought Jaskier’s whining was pathetic earlier it’s pitiful now.

He starts shifting around in their binding again, pulling at Geralt’s abdomen until he gives off another grunt, “Geralt, do something!”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m a bit tied up at the moment,” He hopes Jaskier can hear the sarcasm in his voice as Geralt tries to stop him from moving the ropes.

Jaskier leans heavily to his right as if he could lunge towards the shattered remains of his guitar, “I don’t know,” well, at least he admits it, “whatever they taught you in smuggling school.”

Geralt has to plant his weight down so he doesn’t topple over, “They don’t exactly give out degrees for that, kid,” his efforts prevent Jaskier from making any progress, so at least there’s that.

“Then what good are you?” Jaskier turns to growl in his ear as the woman turns her attention back to them.

She kicks Geralt in his already sore abdomen and he wheezes. “Hey!” Jaskier yells, “You think you’re so tough beating up someone who can’t fight back? Why don’t you untie us and try that shit again?” 

Jaskier gives off an  _ oomph _ as the woman starts in on him. “Leave off! He’s got nothing to do with this.” That gets him a punch to the face and a fat lip. 

He spits blood onto the woman's face, she makes a sound of disgust and wipes it off on her dirty flannel, “You’re gonna regret that dickhead.” She winds up for another punch, he braces himself, and the door opens.

“I leave you alone for an hour and this is the kind of mess you get into?” Yennefer’s a sight for sore eyes. She walks into the room with all the confidence in the world, a blonde man,  _ Filavandrel _ , at her heels. She stands in front of him and bends slightly to wipe the remaining blood on his lip. Yennefer rises to her full height again and walks around to see who exactly he’s tied to, “You got us a puppy? Cute.”

Jaskier, the kid with no self-preservation whatsoever, pipes up, “Geralt, I did have us in the right genre!” He bumps his head into Geralt’s again, “And who might you be oh mysteriously gorgeous savior?”

Yennefer smirks, “At least somebody knows their place.” She walks back around to Filavandrel and his crew, “Alright you can untie them now. Unfortunately, I do need the big one for work purposes. You know how it is.” Filavandrel nods once and looks toward the woman who was just kicking his ass. She looks like she’d rather do anything else but grabs a knife out of one of the pockets of her pants and cuts the ropes. It’s not gentle, the way she’s going at the rope, but it does free him and Jaskier from their bonds.

Geralt takes a second to stand, his joints all popping embarrassingly loud, “Thanks, Yen.” 

Jaskier pops up like a fucking weed, “Yeah, thanks, Yen.” His dumb grin is just as dopey as it was earlier. “And while I have you here since garrulous Geralt wouldn’t share any details, how much is it to hire you two? You see I’ve been looking for-”

Yennefer raises her hand in the air and the effect is immediate, Jaskier’s sputtering comes to an end with a pout, “We don’t take up jobs while we’re on one, so crawl back to me later, okay puppy?”

“At least it’s not kid,” Jaskier mutters to himself and takes a step back towards his guitar’s remains.

Geralt looks towards Yennefer, “We’re still doing this one?” He’d thought after he got ambushed it would’ve rendered the whole thing moot, but who knows what goes on in Yennefer’s head.

Yennefer’s brow raises, “Obviously. That’s what Filavandrel and I were discussing before we were so rudely interrupted by reports of my idiot muscle getting himself and some kid captured.” She points a glare at Filavandrel, “Apparently his band of merry men got it into their heads that we needed to be intimidated into lowering our rates, but as you can see, we got that all settled.”

“Glad to see it all worked out for you.” Geralt rubs at the strap of his watch and watches as Jaskier makes little noises as he picks up pieces of his guitar, “You know, he wasn’t really involved in this, was just following me around like a damn stray. Feel bad for letting his livelihood get destroyed.”

Yennefer turns to watch Jaskier as well, “Getting soft in your old age, Geralt?” She addresses the man who broke it who is looking away out of fear of Yennefer’s glare, “You really should replace it considering you broke it for no reason.” The man shakes his head in an aggressive nod, looks to Filavandrel, and leaves the room faster than shit.

Jaskier slinks up to Yennefer’s side, “So, Yen,” he draws out her name, “are you accepting applications for a pet anytime soon because that is something I could do. I’d be so good at it; you wouldn’t believe it.”

Yennefer pats his face, something that sends Jaskier to a tizzy, “I’d believe it, puppy, but no, I’m just righting a wrong here, nothing more.”

The man comes back with a guitar, shiny enough that even Geralt can tell it’s fancy, he hands it to Filavandrel. Jaskier is already looking at it with eyes as wide as dinner plates, his hands clenching ready to grab it.

Filavandrel clears his throat, “We hope you accept this gift as recompense for your lost companion.” He hands it to Jaskier as if he’s knighting him or some bullshit,  _ pretentious ass _ , but the way Jaskier just snatches it makes Geralt chuckle. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I will cherish her for the rest of my days.” Jaskier spits out and promptly lands a big ole’ smooch to the neck of the guitar, “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” He asks aloud.

Jaskier’s distracted by his new plaything, he pushes the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, and everyone in the room gives out a gasp of horror. “What, what is it?” Jaskier asks, looking at every one of them, his eyes land on Geralt’s, “Geralt, what?”

Geralt pulls him close, gripping his right arm with a bruising force, “Jaskier,” his voice is awfully rough, “are you infected?”

Jaskier tries to pull his arm loose, but Geralt’s grip is far too tight and sure to leave bruises, “Um, yes,” he nervously chuckles, “Oops?”


	3. Summer Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So we're finally heading into new plot territory and I'm very excited to show y'all what I have planned for this story.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Some violence against the infected.
> 
> Anything else you feel needs to be tagged, let me know!

The bite on Jaskier’s arm is an ugly, hideous thing; little bubbles of pus surrounding the gruesome imprint of teeth. It looks like it hurt like hell. 

Geralt’s gaze is unwavering as one hand hovers over the red-hot heat of it, “How?” he manages to get out before tightening his grip on Jaskier’s bird-bone wrist, feels it pop and shift. He shouldn’t grip so hard, the boy feels like he’s gonna break under his touch, but if there’s a slight risk that Jaskier’s gonna start turning before his very eyes, well, Geralt’s always been the protective type. Question is, who exactly he’s setting out to protect.

Jaskier tries to pull away from him though it’s a lost cause, his face heating up at all the stares he’s getting. The others start to close in around him, trying to touch him, trying to see if what they’re all gawking at is real. 

“Jaskier?” Yennefer asks, her voice giving no hint of trepidation. She claims her place right beside Geralt, “That bite looks weeks old.” She bends slightly over Geralt’s arm to get a closer look, “Why aren’t you a runner already?” Yennefer looks him in the eye, Geralt’s already familiar with the face she’s making, the one that shows she means business, “How have you not turned?”

“Well you see,” Jaskier speaks fast, words coming out faster than he can think, “this is why I was trying to hire you, but none of you ever let me talk!” He glares at Geralt, blue eyes flaming up, “You kept shutting me down when I asked,” he turns his glower on Yennefer, “both of you!” 

His words shock Geralt enough to release him like he’s a burning hot skillet, “I’ve been trying to get to Boston to see if any of the Scoia’tael could find out what happened to me because I’ve had this bite for weeks and nothing, nada, zip, zilch. But,” he draws out, “I can’t exactly get into the QZ without a pass, thus I need smugglers.” Jaskier stands arms akimbo, “Now, will you please tell me your going rate.”

Yennefer spits back, arms mirroring Jaskier, “Too expensive for your blood, puppy.” 

Jaskier cackles, bends over at the waist laughing like a damn loon. No one else in the room laughs at his display, they all silently watch as his laugh peters off, “Did you two plan that or do you share a brain cell?” 

He looks between the pair of them, eyes shifting back and forth like he can’t make his mind up, “Listen here, Yennefer, I’ll tell you the same thing I told cowboy,” his eyes land on Yennefer as he pats Geralt on his chest, he moves too quick for Geralt to shove him away, “my blood is blue, so go ahead and name whatever exorbitant price you think will scare me off.”

Geralt glances at Yennefer, she’s looking right back at him. He shrugs his shoulders, it’s her call really, he’s just the muscle. Yennefer bites her lip, tugging it into her mouth and ruining whatever she had painted on them, as she deliberates, all is quiet when she releases it, “You know what, puppy? Your situation might just be the cure for all this bullshit.”

Jaskier’s mouth drops open in shock, wide enough to catch flies in it, “You think so? Because that’s what I was thinking!” He throws his arm around Geralt’s shoulder, “Can you imagine little ole’ me being the miracle solution for everyone? Finally, something to write home about!” 

Geralt opens his mouth to reply when Yennefer beats him to it, “If we drag your skinny ass to Boston I expect to be properly compensated alright, Jaskier?”

You’d almost think he was a bobblehead the way he went about nodding furiously, shaking Yennefer’s hand hard enough to wrench it off, “Oh of course lady Yennefer, I’d hate to think what you’d do to me if I thought about skimping off of you.”

"You’re right,” Yennefer raises her brow, “you don’t want to think what I’d do to you if that would happen, right Filavandrel?”

Filavandrel nods once, “Yes, that would be,” he pauses to find the right word, “unpleasant. However, Yennefer,” he waits for her to show a response, “I thought you would have enough honor to finish up one job before starting another.”

Yennefer laughs loud and bright in Filavandrel’s face, “Oh Fil, that was your mistake thinking I had any honor at all.” 

Filavandrel looks outraged at the shortening of his name, but lets it slide, “I’ll have my people get in contact with your people, okay.” She pats his face as well and turns to grab Jaskier’s arm pulling him along to the door, “Come on puppy, you can tell me how you got that nasty bite on our way to Boston.”

Fuck.

* * *

Geralt wishes he had headphones, earbuds, bits of wax, anything really because Jaskier keeps talking his ear off and the more he shows how annoyed it makes him, the more Yennefer encourages Jaskier to talk.

“So this Valdo Marx, he was your arch-nemesis? And he followed you all the way to the States to what, show you up?” Yennefer asks after one of Jaskier’s tales of his and Valdo Marx’s shenanigans. 

Jaskier turns to her, nearly trips on the uneven concrete, and speaks up, “Ridiculous, right? That man was so full of poppycock it hurt to even look at him sometimes. And yet,” Jaskier starts then pauses, “and yet he still managed to get me to go on countless ‘adventures’ with him. Adventures,” he chuckles, “more like ways to get me killed. Seriously who thinks walking into an abandoned shopping mall is a good idea because there might be something fun in there.”

Geralt doesn’t like how dull Jaskier looks now, the bounce no longer in his step and shoulders slumping every second, “Well,” he clears his throat, “was it fun?”

Jaskier doesn’t get a chance to answer.

The sound of clickers is something Geralt can never get out of his head. It haunts him almost every night along with the sound of a gun going off and Ciri’s little whimpers. It sends chills down his spine and makes the hair on his arms rise up.

He pulls on the strap of Jaskier’s guitar case, forcing him to stop in his tracks. Fortunately, he gets the memo that he needs to shut the fuck up. Yennefer’s already pulling out her make-shift crossbow, eyes scanning the horizon for a hint on where those fuckers are hiding.

The clicker calls out again, the guttural croaking noises are coming from the east, so Geralt pushes Jaskier behind a rusted car frame to their west. He kneels down next to the kid and raises a finger to his lips and gestures at him to stay. 

Geralt stands back up and prays that his knees don’t pop and give away their position. Clickers are almost like dinosaurs, can’t see you, but uses its other senses to find you anyway. He almost wishes this whole apocalypse was based on some rich bastard’s dream to recreate Jurassic Park. But no, nobody knows how the cordyceps virus came to be, just that it eats at your brain until it makes you want to eat brains in turn. 

Yennefer starts stepping towards it, her footsteps silent as she tries to set her shot. Geralt unsheathes his sword, he doesn’t want to get too close to the clicker. The sight of its head, fungal-like, and knowing that it used to be a _person_ still scares the bejesus out of him. Not that Yennefer or Jaskier for that matter will ever know, he needs them to think of him as some unstoppable force, whether for their own sanity or his own he’ll never know.

His sword is an extension of his arm, his palm fitting into the grooves worn into the hilt of it. He twists his wrist, mentally preparing himself for what he’s about to do. Geralt faces the clicker head on. Yennefer shoots a crossbolt at it and nails it where it’s heart should be, but it’s not enough to take it down. Geralt raises the sword and uses his other hand to heft it even further. 

With one stroke he strikes across the neck of it, his sword gets stuck midway through chopping the head off. The death noises it releases is almost worse than the croaks it made when it was alive, but Geralt steels himself and kicks its chest. The body sloughs off his sword, making a nasty wet noise as it plops onto the ground. Geralt shakes his sword to get rid of the excess blood and makes a note to clean it properly, or as properly as his resources will let him be, later.

Yennefer comes up to the body and snatches up the crossbolt still lodged in its chest, she places it in her quiver with the rest of her assortment of arrows and crossbolts.

“Well, that was faster than the last one,” She pats his shoulder, “how kind of you to give our puppy a demonstration of your skills.” 

Yennefer walks back to Jaskier, who up until now, has still been silent. A record for him, Geralt’s sure. Geralt follows along at a snail's-pace, readying himself up for whatever reaction the kid’s gonna give him.

He’s not ready for Jaskier to throw himself into his arms, shouting in his ear, “Geralt, you absolute madman,” Jaskier lays a smacking kiss to his cheek, Geralt pushes him away to wipe the saliva off his face. It doesn’t deter Jaskier a bit, “The way you just went ‘whipow’ with your sword? Incredible, amazing, beautiful! How did you even learn how to use a sword?”

This conversation could go one of two ways; Geralt could make a quip about knowing how to swing a sword, something that Jaskier can’t do, or he could be his usual ornery self. He goes for the second option.

“Hmm.” Geralt starts walking north but doesn't check to see if Jaskier or Yennefer are following.

He can hear Jaskier grumble behind him and hides a smirk.

* * *

They need to stop at their latest hideout, an abandoned bed-and-breakfast that only had a minuscule amount of runners in the backyard. Nothing that Geralt can’t run down with his sword or beat with a heavy piece of iron that he keeps attached to his pack. 

It’s an old colonial-style house, something Ciri would’ve gawked at because it looked fancy. Yennefer talks up the place, noting that it’s historical, someplace they should be proud to be staying at. Jaskier, of course, takes that as an invitation to yap his mouth uproariously to the point that Yennefer has to tug on his hair every time it looks like he’s gonna start talking again. 

When they finally make it into the room they claimed as theirs Jaskier rubs at his head, “I know I like it rough love, but give a man warning next time.” Yennefer rolls her eyes and makes her way to one of the two beds in the room. 

There’s a pile of papers scattered all across the dusty duvet, Yennefer starts shuffling them together in a pile, “So, Jaskier, you never did tell us how you got that nasty bite of yours.” She’s deliberately not looking at him, to give him leeway or something else Geralt doesn’t know. Geralt, however, hasn’t taken his eyes off of him. He doesn’t trust the kid, he didn’t panic at the clicker, he hasn’t shown signs of turning, he’s a goddamn anomaly. And then there was what Yennefer was spewing, that Jaskier could be the start of a vaccine, a cure.

A miracle cure, sounds too good to be true.

And it is, if the secret to beating back the cordyceps virus is locked in the DNA of some idiot kid from across the pond. 

God save them from the Brits.

Jaskier looks startled, not the first time Geralt’s seen it on him, but strange considering it’s just the three of them and Yennefer already guaranteed him safe passage to his destination. He’s gnawing on his lip like it’s a damn chew toy, his fingers tugging at the strap of his guitar case with his shiny new guitar in it. 

“Hey,” Geralt calls out as he sits his ass on the other bed, “you don’t have to tell us shit if you don’t want to. S’your story, kid, you tell it when you want to tell it.” It’s not comforting, the way Geralt says it, but it does do something to calm Jaskier down.

He lets go of the strap of the case, finger by finger, and grabs it by the body and pulls it to his front. “Uh,” he releases his torn lip, “I don’t think I’m up for retelling that adventurous tale just yet,” he unzips the case and brings out the guitar, “I _can_ play you a song I’ve been messing around with, I think I finally got the ending bit done, but that’s not quite ready to play until I’ve practiced it a million times.” He chuckles to himself and strums the strings, fingers playing a gentle melody. 

It reminds Geralt of sitting in his old man’s garage with a cold bottle in his hand, the sound of the radio playing some bluegrass station, his cub screaming her head off in the backyard as she runs around with his brothers. It sends chills down his spine when Jaskier starts singing.

_I walk through the valley of the shadow of death_

It’s completely different from the shit music he was playing in the shit bar at the end of the shitting world. 

It feels real.

_And I fear no evil because I’m blind to it all_

_And my mind and my gun they comfort me_

_Because I know I’ll kill my enemies when they come_

Yennefer’s stopped doing whatever she was doing, hands at a standstill on the top of the bed as she looks at Jaskier with a newfound appreciation though he can't see it with his eyes closed. 

_Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life_

_And I will dwell on this earth forevermore_

_Said I walk beside the still waters and they restore my soul_

_But I can’t walk on the path of the right because I’m wrong_

Jaskier plays out the rest of the melody and comes to a natural stopping point, “Well,” he looks towards them, “I’m still working on the ending in here,” he taps the side of his head, “but what do you think so far?”

Yennefer huffs, Geralt grunts, and Jaskier squawks in outrage.

“Oh come the fuck on mate!” He sets his guitar down on the bed Geralt’s claimed, “I _know_ you were tearing up, swear on my granddad’s grave.” He puts his hand over his heart as if it’ll lend him extra credence. Geralt blinks at him, slow and heavy, and turns back to his pack sitting next to him and starts pulling out his sword and a cloth.

Jaskier sighs and moves on to Yennefer, “Yen, lovely, beautiful, gorgeous, Yen, please tell me your honest and most sincere thoughts on my singing.” He sits gingerly on the edge of her bed, head tilted to the side like an actual puppy.

Yennefer takes one glance at him before moving the pile of papers into her own pack, “I don’t go in for country shit.”

“Then why do you have Geralt with you?”

Geralt throws the cloth at Jaskier’s head as Yennefer throws her head back to laugh, and while it _is_ a dig at him it is nice to see Yennefer let loose.

“Oh, puppy I knew there was a reason I wanted to keep you.” She ruffles Jaskier’s hair and shoves him off the bed, “Now find a nice spot to sleep, we’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

Jaskier lays in the middle of their two beds and looks toward Geralt with his doe eyes all glistening like he’s really about to cry. Geralt sighs knowing he’s gonna regret this in the morning and unfolds the duvet corner closest to him, “Fine, but if you touch me in your sleep you’re dead.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it cowboy.” Jaskier chuckles and sits on the bed to pull off his boots.

It’s just this side of too bright to go to sleep, but it’s been a long day for all of them. Jaskier’s already conked out and snoring away. Geralt huffs to himself and continues to clean his sword, but pauses when he hears Yennefer snort.

She’s getting ready for bed, her stuff pushed off to the side, “What?” he asks, but all he gets is a shake of her head.

Geralt’s voice is a smidge whiny, “Yen,” but he refuses to cower before her.

“Just try not to get too attached to the kid, alright? We have no clue what needs to happen to him in order to make a cure and I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

He grunts in response, “No need to worry about that, my hopes died a long time ago.”

Yennefer settles herself in the bed, the duvet pushed aside so she can lay under the sheets, “You keep telling yourself that, Geralt. Good night.” And with that she turns to her side, facing away from him.

He’s left alone to his thoughts and Jaskier’s snores, checks the watch on his wrist, he doesn’t know why, it hasn’t worked in years, and settles in for a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Jaskier sings is _Through the Valley _by Shawn James. Please check out the rest of his discography because it is amazing!__


End file.
